Days Like This
by Cassima
Summary: Complete. Methos has a bad day. Slash.
1. Daybreak

Days Like This  Days Like This By [Cassima][1] and [Kat][2]

Yay! A fic we finally finished! Go us!

Rating: R; language and two hot guys. ;)

Synopsis: Methos has a bad day.

Warnings: Slash, DM/M, angst, and some humor. But only a little bit of humor. I swear. Oh, did I mention our over-use of the word "crap"? Hehehehehe...

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_"This isn't fun! I've had fun! This isn't it!"_

--Peter, "Adventures in Slime and Space", _The Real Ghostbusters_

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Methos, the world's oldest immortal, was having a bad day. It started out with his waking up in an unfamiliar place--the bed in his flat in Seacouver, Washington--instead of the couch in Duncan MacLeod (of the clan MacLeod)'s loft.

"The fuck did I get here?" he muttered to himself as he hoisted his overly tired frame out of the uncomfortable bed. Stumbling into the bathroom, he turned on the sink and bent to splash water on his face before he remembered why he rarely stayed in the flat to begin with.

The water main in the area had some problems, and for some reason, the pipes failed to work on a daily basis.

Crap.

Oh, well; he'd lived without running water for centuries, right? He could go without a shower or homemade coffee for just one day, right? And then, tonight, he'd crash again at Mac's loft on that lumpy-but-familiar couch with Mac snoring in the--

Oh, crap. The fight.

How could he have forgotten? Stupid, stupid, he scolded himself as he pulled on his jeans and the sweater he had stolen from the Boy Scout. That's right, just start forgetting who your friends are. Soon you'll be looking for Silas--

Crap in a can.

An unexpected wave of grief rolled over him at the thought of his old friend, the first break to the melancholy numbness he'd felt about Silas after the initial meltdown during the whole Murderous Past Fiasco. He squeezed his eyes shut as Silas' Quickening seemed to rear it's ugly head, reminding him how he always killed his friends.

He needed some coffee.

Fortunately, there was a small coffee shop he knew of just off of the local campus that would be open and relatively uncrowded at this hour. With the thought of a double expresso firmly in mind, he set off, walking. The campus wasn't too far, and it would seem out of character for the poor grad student he was supposed to be to have a cab bring him to the college campus.

As soon as he stepped outside the door of the apartment building and let the door swing shut behind him, he realized another mistake--it was raining out. HARD. By the time he'd dropped his keys in the mud twice, finally unlocked the door, run back inside and gotten an umbrella, he was soaked. Grumbling to himself, he opened his drawer, to find that... absolutely none of his other clothes were clean. In fact, they were remarkably dirty... He shook a shirt out, and, much to his disgust, a cockroach rolled out. Ewww. He left on what he was wearing, and decided to just walk there, seeing as he was already soaked.

He entered the coffee shop some twenty minutes and countless puddles later, muttering to himself. The nice girl working at the counter took one look at him and closed her mouth on whatever cheerful greeting she might have otherwise uttered. He sighed in silent relief that he wouldn't have to put up with a happy, cheery worker, and gruffly ordered.

The coffee mug was warm, almost painfully so, and a blessed relief from the chilled rain outside. He grasped it in both hands to warm them, and settled down with his back to the wall, glowering around at the rest of the world (or, at least, the rest of the coffee shop) over the rim of his mug.

He almost spilled the precious liquid as the Presence of another immortal slammed into him. Just what he needed this morning.

Crap on a bamboo pole.

She wasn't the usual gorgeous types that MacLeod always found himself fighting with; actually, she was kind of ugly. Her bright red hair was stringy, her makeup too heavily applied, and her jewelry simply gaudy. She looked at him distastefully, as one might look at a dead rat lying next to the garbage can, and shook the water, leaves, and sticks out of her umbrella.

Right into his coffee.

Crap on a hot tin roof.

He gave the child a cold glance. "Can I help you?"

She straightened her expensive gray powersuit, manicured nails clicking lightly together. "Horrible day for a challenge, isn't it?"

"Oh, you have GOT to be joking. On a day like this?"

She pushed her horridly bright bangs out of her eyes and gave him a pitying glance. "Perfect cover."

Suddenly, Methos remembered where he'd left his sword.

MacLeod's. In the umbrella stand.

Crap in a cup. At least he had his dirk with him, strapped to his calf.

"I'm not going anywhere until you replace my drink," he said with all the dignity he could muster, gesturing to his ruined coffee. "I refuse to fight without caffeine in my system. It's the least you can do." He gave her a charming smile.

She melted. "...I suppose so. I can honor a last request." She marched over to the counter to get him a new coffee.

He bolted, racing through the rain towards the University.

Soggy.

Without his sword.

With an ugly Immortal chasing him.

Crap in a shoe.

He reached the first of the University halls, and ran inside, looking around for the nearest men's room. Preferably one with an outside window.

He slipped inside, only then realizing his umbrella was still in the coffeeshop, and locked the door. Turning around and leaning against it, he found himself face to face with someone. Not just ANYONE, but one of the last people he wanted to see right now.

Crap in a porcelain vase.

"A-dam!" cried the effeminate voice as the blond teaching fellow smiled charmingly at him. "How _are_ you doing today?"

Adam swallowed hard and reined in the last of his control to keep himself from using the dirk strapped to his leg on his own neck. "Ryan!" He cleared his throat to bring the pitch out of falsetto. "I'm--uh--very wet... and I think there's someone stalking me."

The man clucked his tongue. "Another one of your ex-boyfriends come to reclaim the goods?"

Adam inwardly groaned as he remembered the last excuse he'd used to keep an immortal off his tail. "Uh, no, actually, I've never seen this woman before in my life. I think she wants my head."

"Oh, Adam, we all want you to give head."

This is not happening. This is simply not happening, Methos swore to himself as he rubbed the toe of his boot reassuringly against his dirk. He did not just say what I thought he just said. "Uh, Ryan, we've discussed this before... I'm not interested."

Ryan pouted and began to advance on him, eyes undressing the poor, soaked Immortal. "I just thought... since you've broken up with your latest boyfriend, maybe you could use some--" he licked his lips, "--comforting?"

"My latest boyfriend?" Methos' eyebrows hit the ceiling.

Ryan waved his hand. "Oh, that History teacher... Duncan What's-his-face."

"_MacLeod?_"

Ryan dismissed it and closed in to his prey. "Oh, yes, it's all over the University."

Crap on a hard disk.

"But... but we weren't even going out!" Suddenly, he felt the unmistakable wave of Presence hit him. "Well, you know, Ryan, time really does fly, and I've got to be going now--ta-ta!" Racing to the window, he opened it up and jumped, landed, and rolled, allowing the last tinges of Presence to leave him. I'm going to miss my class, he realized in a panic. I have to go back. Spotting an empty phone booth, he ran in and shut the door, suddenly feeling even more cold. Shivers began to rack his body, and his teeth played maraca-beats in counterpoint to the smacking rain and howling wind. What to do, what to--

The meeting this morning.

At Eight-o'clock.

It was 8:45.

Crap in a corner.

Okay, this day was rapidly turning into one of the worst ones he could remember off the top of his head. It was even worse then that time he'd gotten arrested during the plague... Especially since THAT had led to some interesting times and several enjoyable escapades...

He was jarred out of his remembrances by someone pounding on the phone booth. He smiled apologetically at them and sprinted through the rain, wondering if he would still be in time to get to any part of the meeting, or if he should even try. And if MacLeod would be there.

How had Ryan gotten the idea that he and MacLeod were an item, let alone broken up?

Crap on a sword doing the hula.

But, on to matters right now that he could actually _deal_ with.

The meeting.

He'd just hit the tail end of it, play sick, and go home to spend the rest of this miserable day with a good book, a hot cup of tea and a warm blanket. Maybe if he felt like playing nice to MacLeod, he could go sit on the barge where there was real running water.

He sneezed.

Crap of the Gods.

Well, maybe he wouldn't have to _play_ sick after all.

He raced into the building and up the stairs, wrapping a sick Adam Pierson around him like a familiar blanket. He shook and shivered. He coughed. He snuffled. He entered the meeting room.

"Sorry I'm late," he offered as he made his way to his seat. The two people next to him eased away from him, not wanting to catch whatever he had.

"Thank you for showing, Mr. Pierson," came the cool voice of the Head Professor.

Adam coughed an apology.

The meeting continued for a few more moments, and Adam struggled to keep from laying his head down on the table and sleeping. He hadn't slept well last night, not with the fight rolling around fresh in his mind. He couldn't wait for the meeting to end so he could make his excuses and go home to die in peace. To hell with MacLeod; he could wait until this crappy day was over to have his absolution or whatever he needed to get off his Scottish brooding pride thing.

When the meeting _finally_ adjourned--thank the stars--Adam made his way to their Fearless Leader to excuse himself and get the crap outta there.

"Adam, you look like shit," Professor Jordan told him kindly.

"I was afraid of that. I think I'm going to have to take the day off."

The other man shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Adam, but we're understaffed today. Seven people called in sick in our department alone, and we just barely have enough subs to cover it. Unless you're dying, I'd really appreciate it if you could stay."

Crappy fuck.

Adam sneezed, one only partially faked, and reluctantly agreed. "Um... Professor Jordan, I guess I can stay, but... do you happen to know of a dry set of clothes I can borrow?" He dripped on the carpet. The janitors who came in to straighten the room for the impending conference sent him nasty looks, and muttered something particularly crude involving a dog and Adam's mother when they spotted the chair he had been sitting in.

Professor Jordan gave him another sad look. "To tell you the truth, Adam, we've all changed into our spares. I don't know of _anyone_ that'll have one for you. I'm sorry, but my class starts in..." he looked at his watch, "six minutes. I really must be going."

As the Prof. walked away, Methos considered. He actually knew of one Boy Scout who might have a set of dry clothing. The question was, would he let him borrow them?

He recalled his last words to MacLeod: "Fuck you, MacLeod. Fuck your morals, fuck your women, and fuck your damned sense of honor!"

Crap on an iron chain.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Within a few minutes, Methos had arrived outside the door to the Highlander's office. He knocked loudly, and waited.

And waited.

And knocked again.

Fifteen minutes later found him standing, shivering, outside the door to his own office, still wearing his own clothes.

MacLeod hadn't been there. In fact, Methos was beginning to suspect that the Highlander had been one of the absent staff members that day.

In addition, he had stuck his hand in his pocket for his key chain, only to discover he had lost it between the day before and now. As a result, he was locked out.

Crap in a cell phone.

This day wasn't going very well...

Oh, _that's_ the greatest understatement in all bloody history, he corrected himself viciously. Stifling another sneeze--but not another curse directed at Seacouver's resident Scottish Highlander--he debated breaking into his own office. No, with his bloody luck, Security would catch him and think he was a deranged student trying to get revenge on a teacher.

He set off to find a janitor.

Evidentially, the janitorial staff had all called in sick, too, because all he could find was a little old lady cleaning a blackboard.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to let me into my classroom," he asked with a brilliant smile.

And then repeated it in Spanish, just for her benefit.

"I have to clean," she denied, scrubbing the huge wrap-around board one inch at a time.

"It really is an emergency," he charmed, stifling a cough. His clothes weren't even drying in the humidity.

"I clean the blackboard," she said in her creaky, slow voice. "Then I mop the floors. _Then_ I can let you in your room."

For the love of--

Senile old bitch. Obviously, the Pierson Charm was fading.

He finally decided, "Screw it, I'm breaking in." Making his way back to his classroom, he looked left, right, and behind him before taking a credit card from his wallet and slipping it into the lock. "Bingo!" he muttered as the catch sprung with an easy click.

The hand on his back took him completely by surprise. "What do you think _you're_ doing, young man?" the security guard growled. "Breaking and entering is against the law!" He fixed Methos with a wary, proud eye. "I knew we'd finally catch that thief!"

"But, I'm--" Methos began, mentally swearing at his stupid self in both Egyptian and Greek.

"I don't care who's son you are, I'm calling the police!" The guard pulled out his walkie-talkie and reported the incident.

"But you don't understand," Methos began again. This is just what I need to improve my day! Now all I have to do is lose a challenge.

And, as he was being hauled off in the police car--for some reason, he had lost his ID card and none of the current staff recognized him--he thought he saw the psychotic ugly immortal bitch watching him.

As if this was _his_ fault.

Crap in a Walkman.

To make things worse, he finally remembered that all his students were going to a lecture today. None of them were even going to show.

Crap in the clouds.

A few hours later, he heard the voice of the Head Professor, talking to the desk sergeants. He reflected that it was good that he had used his phone call to call Professor Jordan's office, not to try to track down the erstwhile Highlander. Unfortunately, the Head Professor hadn't been in, and his secretary had evidently not seen fit until an hour ago to bother him with the news that he was to go bail out one of his poor little professors from the jail.

"I'm so sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir. Thank you for getting me out of there..." 

"It's all right, Adam. I think that, after all you've been through today, perhaps you'd better just go home and get some rest... And change into some clean, dry clothes. Those are starting to smell." He pressed some change into Methos's hand. "Here. Call a cab."

"Oh... thank you, Professor Jordan!"

"It's really not a problem. Now, scat!"

When Methos got to MacLeod's apartment, half an hour later, he cursed the fact that he had nowhere else to go. Then he cursed the fact that he didn't have a key--that was on the missing ring, too. He broke into the loft, thankful in some ways that the dojo was empty, but wishing it was open; it would have saved him the trouble of breaking in.

He grabbed some clothes out of Duncan's dresser, decided he just wanted to get clean and dry and sleep for a year, and went and took a hot shower. After jerking himself out of a doze and getting out and dressed, he flopped into MacLeod's bed, figuring he'd only curl up there for a few minutes, and would surely be awake by the time the Highlander arrived back from wherever he was.

He was fast asleep within a minute of falling into bed.

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"Duncan, you think that Immortals stay committed to only one gender for their entire life?" Amanda stomped towards the dojo in MacLeod's wake, grabbing his arm and swinging him around. "This is not a time to have a mid-life crisis, it's a time to stop mucking around in your head and get in with that beautiful body of Methos'!"

"But, Amanda, you've never..." he trailed off, suddenly unsure.

"What, you think those cold nights I spent with Rachel were warmed by a fire?" she asked rather jauntily.

He blanched and then flushed. "A-MAN-da..."

"MacLeod, an opportunity like that does not walk around all too often!" she said, more gently.

"Five thousand years," Mac interjected.

"But how long is he going to hang around here, with you acting all cranky and broody?"

"I don't brood!"

"You do too, dear. Methos is perfect for you, and I know he wants you. You want him. What's the problem?" She gave him a soft look. "Duncan, you're going to ruin your relationship with the old man. I know he's mystical, and manipulative, and manic, and just a damn son of a bitch at times, but I've seen you two together, and I've seen how you're driving him away right now. You're scared, and you're pushing all his buttons. You know what? We're going right upstairs right now. We're going to call him, and you're going to explain why you've been such a pain in the ass for the past month and a half."

"Three months, and I don't think this is such a good idea." Nevertheless, he deigned to allow himself to be led towards the lift. Better over the phone than in person, he thought with relief. The message will get all tangled if I have to look at him.

A sudden wave of presence washed over them as they got in the lift, and they looked instinctively toward the door to the dojo. A tall, black Immortal strolled through, carrying a big, black box.

"Lara!" Duncan cried warmly, moving towards the door.

Lara shook her head, though, and he remained back. "I'm just bringing you those pieces you wanted for your class. I have no use for them anymore, so just sort through it to find what you want." She put it down next to them in the lift. "It's really heavy, though, so don't try to lift it without help. Just drag it into your room." She smiled, the perfect, even, white teeth flashing. "I'm going back to Africa for a bit."

"I thought you were staying in Seacouver!" Duncan protested, taking the ancient Amazon's hand in thanks.

"Wen-Tao has never been to Africa," she said coyly, twisting her new ring. "I was just unloading some old stuff I was holding for a friend who ended up dead." Her wide smile waned a bit, but she shook her head. "But, no use dwelling in the past, right? Sayonara, MacLeod-san." With a traditional bow, she departed for the airport.

Amanda frowned. "Mac, what are your feelings for her?"

He closed the gate on the lift and shrugged. "I dunno. She's a nice girl."

"But you don't want to sleep with her?"

"Amanda!"

"And you DO want to sleep with Methos?"

"I..." he nodded. "Why are you so eager to talk me into this?"

She grinned charmingly. "Oh, my dear, when Methos has you trained--I'm hoping for a three-way."

The elevator rose, lifting one overweight box, one devious lady, and one chicken-shit Scot.

No, he denied, a Scot is never chicken-shit.

Highlanders are brave. Determined. Strong. They pick arguments with their best friends.

He frowned. He was going to have to work on his definition of "Highlander".

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Methos woke up all at once, feeling that unmistakable buzz that came with the presence of another of his kind. He started to sit up when he heard the voices in the lift and recognized them as MacLeod's and, of all people, Amanda's.

Fuck that crap.

Amanda and MacLeod, talking quietly to one another, in MacLeod's apartment? By far the most likely scenario was that they were there for sex. Not quite what Methos needed, especially as he was lying flopped on the Highlander's _BED_, of all pieces of furniture!

He decided to lay low--literally--until either he was discovered, or, more favorably, he could escape somehow...

   [1]: MAILTO:BLACK_CASSIMA@HOTMAIL.COM
   [2]: MAILTO:majickal_childe@yahoo.com



	2. High Noon

Days Like This, part 2

Days Like This, Part 2

By [Cassima][1] and [Kat][2]

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Duncan sighed. "All right, Amanda. I yield to your superior logic and reason in this."

She smiled deviously. "Nah, Mac. You know you're just agreeing because, deep down, you _want_ to! Now, you may have finally accepted that..."

"All right, all right!" MacLeod laughed as he lifted his hands, hoping to make himself feel less terrified by acting cheerful and confident. He brushed past Amanda to go into the bathroom.

As he was washing his hands, he caught sight of the shower in the mirror. What the crap...?

A pile of soggy clothes were hanging haphazardly from the shower head, making a slight drip-drip noise that he hadn't noticed before with his preoccupation. He frowned.

"Hey, that's the sweater I lost a month ago!" he cried, rather upset. How had it ended up here, of all places? And now it looked as if it would be all stretched out.

And then he noticed the pants.

"My lucky slacks!" he bemoaned, clutching the almost ruined fabric.

What in the blackest of hells had happened here, the Fairy of Misplaced Favorite Clothing just dropped by to leave him a gift?!?

Confused, dazed, and bewildered, he exited the washroom, bringing the sopping wet offending articles along with him.

"Duncan?" Amanda raised an eyebrow at his handful of crunched up clothing.

"It seems _someone_ dropped by to give me back my clothes," he muttered, dumping them in the laundry basket. He'd see if he could salvage them later, after he had dealt with the whole Methos Issue.

Damn it, he couldn't even refer to it as what it was! "Issue"! Hah!

"Methos?" she inquired.

"He must be furious if he's returning my clothes," he said despondently, sitting heavily on the couch.

Amanda came up behind him and put her arms around him. "Listen to me," she whispered softly in his ear. "You are going to fix this and get some nookie, okay?"

He smiled sadly. "You're too good for me, Amanda."

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Back in the bedroom, Methos pulled away from the door in a panic. They were going to have sex? Right then?

Crap in his pants.

Where to hide, where to hide... he looked around the room in a panic. Immediately discarding under the bed as being too close to the action, he heard rustling at the door and dove for the closet.

Full.

Fine, under the bed then. He scrambled to the bed, rolled under, and found Duncan's personal dust bunny collection. Coming face to face with one as big as his head, he decided not to challenge it for authority and hoped Amanda and Duncan were planning on tangoing on the couch. He really was still tired... maybe they'd forget him if he just went back to sleep on the bed... Climbing back onto the really rather comfortable mattress, he laid his head down and hoped his trepidation was unfounded.

Crap on a crowbar.

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Duncan looked up at Amanda. "Oh, yeah, by the way, 'Manda--I've got that painting of yours in my closet."

"Oh, Duncan!" she squealed, wrapping her arms around him. "Call Methos and go get it so I can scram!"

Grumbling, he nervously dialed the number and waited through the rings... until the machine kicked on.

Panicking, he hung up.

"He's not home," he excused himself lamely. "I'll go get your painting so you can catch your plane." Waving off all her excuses, he opened the door to his bedroom and ventured inside.

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Methos heard someone approaching the door to the bedroom and panicked completely. Springing off the bed, he started to dash across the room. He was just even with the door when it swung open to reveal a shocked Highlander. He froze.

Crap in holy water.

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Duncan found himself face to face with the one person he both most and least wanted to see right now: Methos.

The two men stood frozen in place, staring at one another, when Amanda's voice startled them out of their mutual reverie.

"Duncan? What's talking you so long?" Her voice, coming from right outside the door, made them both jump nervously. She walked in, and her mouth made a cute little 'o' of surprise for a moment. Then she calmly walked up, stopping next to Mac, and surveyed Methos from head to foot and back up.

"You've got something in your hair." She reached out and smoothed a few particles of dust out of his hair.

And Methos lost it.

He certainly didn't _mean_ to loose it, but it had been a long, trying day, and this just seemed to be the perfect finish.

He burst out laughing in MacLeod's face.

All right, so it was hysterical laughter, but it was still a release that he desperately needed, and once he'd started, he couldn't stop.

MacLeod just stood there, shock melting into confusion, confusion into slight anger.

And still Methos laughed, but the hysteria was beginning to get the better of him. He knew that if he didn't get himself under control, he'd soon be sobbing out his sorrows at the Highlander -- which he _could not_ afford to do.

Choking down the rest of his laughter, he strode back into the other room and grabbed himself something to drink -- something considerably stronger then his usual beer.

Amanda unobtrusively excused herself, and Mac sat down on the couch.

Angrily, he decided to ask the old timer something that would almost certainly preclude any real revelations on his part. "So, Methos, what are you doing in my bed?"

"Sleeping."

"Why--"

Methos cut him off. "MacLeod, do you know what has happened to me today? First, I wake up in my roach-infested flat -- which doesn't have running water, by the way--then I stumble--through the pouring rain--to get some coffee, only to have some bitch challenge me--and to realize that I don't have my sword! So, I get chased across campus, still in the pouring rain, and manage to lock myself in the bathroom with that horny asshole, Ryan. He, of course, comes on to me, so I go out the _window_, and hide in a telephone booth, only to realize I'm forty-five minutes late for the staff meeting! _Then_ I go there, in time to sit through the last, like, ten or fifteen minutes, only to find out that so many people had called in sick that I couldn't go home! By then I have a real kick-ass cold, and still incredibly soggy--and I can't change clothes. I go to my office, only to find that I'm locked out, and the only janitor that I can find is a little old lady who only speaks Spanish and who won't let me in until she's done cleaning everything _else_! So, I try to break into my office, only to be caught by Security, who assume that I'm the Campus Thief, and am dragged off to the police station. Kick is, though, my class wasn't even going to _need_ me, today! They had a guest lecture! The bitch who challenged me gave me the hairy eyeball _and_ I had to spend _three hours_ of this bloody awful day in the bloody _police station_ locked in a bloody cell with two pimps, a drug dealer, and a big, beefy guy named Buddy with too many bloody tattoos who kept coming on to me!!"

The Highlander looked at him, completely dumbfounded and not a trifle amused.

Methos took a swig from his bottle.

"So I come back here and collapse into your bed--after the Head Prof. finally comes to bail me out of jail -- and just _what_ do I wake up to, but you and Amanda coming back here, and I quote, 'going to get some nookie'!??!!"

"'Some nookie'...?" Mac repeated, sounding a bit overwhelmed. "We weren't--"

"Oh, don't try to make your excuses to me, Highlander! I've had it up to _here_ with this crappy day--" he sneezed. "Damn it!"

Mac blinked. Methos was sick? Maybe that would explain the earlier nonsensical rant. Carefully approaching him, he lifted one hand to the old man's forehead. "You're hot," he murmured, checking it against his own head.

"This is just bloody wonderful!" Methos moaned, sitting heavily on the couch.

"When was the last time you ate something?"

"I mean, has today been my day for being propositioned by assholes or what?"

Duncan thought for a minute. "Unless you had something when you went to the coffeehouse this morning, it would have been dinner yesterday, right?"

"Plus, that bitch with the sword probably followed me here. She'll be knocking on the door at any second--"

Loud pounding came from the door, and the unmistakable surge of presence surrounded them.

Methos threw his head in his hands and groaned. "It's days like this that I wonder why I bother to save my own miserable life."

"I'll get the door," Mac comforted, not quite sure what to say, and pulled out his katana to answer the knock. Methos followed a few paces behind, resigned to his fate.

"Can I help you?" he asked the woman with a terrible makeup job and stringy red hair.

She looked over his shoulder to Methos in the distance. "I've come for him."

Duncan _wanted_ to say "Well, tough -- he's MINE!", but decided better of it. Well, actually, that could work...

As reasonably as he could, he asked her, "Why are you after him? Is it anything pressing and personal? Or are you simply after his head because There Can Only Be One? Because, I have prior claim on him..."

Obstinately, she jutted out her chin. "What do I care if you have prior claim? You're just some two-bit, too-pretty SOB of a new Immortal."

Mac decided he really didn't like this woman. He gave her a once over, and said, very coldly, "I'm very sorry, ma'am, but you've made a mistake. My name is Duncan MacLeod, and I have a prior claim on this man." He thought violently, "Get in line!" but again refrained from saying it. Dumb bitch'd probably take him literally.

She went white. "Duncan MacLeod..." She faltered. "The... Duncan MacLeod? The Highlander?"

He sighed in aggravation. "As far as I know, there _is_ only one of me..."

She almost tripped over herself in her haste to apologize and leave. "Oh, I'm very, very sorry, sir..."

The door clicked shut behind her.

"Lackey..." he muttered, disgusted, and locked the door.

Methos was leaning against the wall, and he brought his head back to rest against the white plaster with a thump. "What a wonderful display of macho posturing," he intoned. "You really out-testosteroned that bitch, let me tell you."

Mac looked at him, a little annoyed. "Did you _want_ her to take your head?"

Methos rolled his eyes. "Oh, come off it, MacLeod. She couldn't kill me, not even on today." He paused, pondering. "You know, I think my planets are misaligned." For some reason, he kept hearing Ryan's voice: "Oh, Adam, we all want you to give head." He shuddered and stifled a cough.

The Highlander frowned. "Come on, Old Man, I'm putting you to bed."

"I'm not a child, Mac," he protested.

"Come on, you know we only get sick when we're run down." Taking Methos' hand, he gave it a tug, surprised when the old man actually allowed himself to be pulled back to the bedroom. Pushing Methos down on the bed and pulling the covers over him, he met the sarcastic look with a gentle one of his own. "I'm sorry," he said sadly.

"For what?" Now that his head was actually on the pillow, Methos was actually feeling weights pull his eyelids over his eyes. He struggled, trying to decipher what the child was brooding over now.

"Yesterday, and everything that led up to it. I didn't mean to snap, I just..."

Methos struggled to understand. "Sleep!" his body cried with glee. "You're a nice, clean bed, you idiot! Sleep!"

"Shut up," he replied to his mind, "I'm trying to think."

"Look, Mac, you don't have to explain--"

"Yes," the Highlander said furiously, "I do! I've been looking within myself and doing a lot of thinking lately, and I've finally decided that I want to do this. I'm going to do this."

Methos blinked, confused. "Do what?"

"Methos... I love you."

Methos fell out of bed.

When he finally pulled the tangled bedsheets from his face, he found the Highlander hovering over him, less then a foot from his face. He was smiling, but there was a worried glint in his eyes.

"You know, that wasn't quite the reaction I was hoping for..." Of course, he thought to himself, it wasn't the worst one that the Old Man could have had. Or still could...

==========================================================

Methos was seriously considering having a psychiatric evaluation. He thought the Highland Child had just declared love for him. And was now joking about it.

Well, a day in the life of a 5,000-year-old man. Leaping (from) tall buildings in a single bound, saving maidens in distress (and then being saved from them), and making Scottish womanizers swoon at his feet (or him swooning at theirs).

Lifting the bed skirt, he peered under the bed.

"What are you doing?" Mac asked him with amusement, eyes sparkling.

"Checking for pod people," he retorted, head spinning. "Let me get this straight: you come home to have sex with your incredibly sexy girlfriend, find your annoying freeloader--who you just had a fight with, incidentally--sleeping in your bed, and say, 'hey, screw the hot chick, let's go for the old fart'. Did I get that right?" He shot a glare at the other man.

Duncan squirmed. "Well, yes and no." His face looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but in the room with Methos, having this conversation. "I mean, Amanda and I didn't... I mean, we came here to... I mean, I tried to call you, but... and then, Amanda was going to leave... but you didn't answer the phone, so I... I don't want to screw Amanda. I mean... you got that all wrong!" He was flushing deeply at this point.

Methos raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

Duncan sighed and sat down on the floor next to him, hand reaching absently for Methos'. "I called Amanda here because I realized I was having these... feelings, and she's good at helping me understand them. Accept them. I... God, Methos, I can't look at you when I say this. It's too hard."

Methos blinked, sat up, and pulled the bedspread over his head.

MacLeod couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, that's one way to deal with it!" He sobered quickly. "What I'm trying to say, Methos, is that I love you. And that I want you--and nobody else BUT you. And am absolutely miserable without you." He held his breath, waiting for the old man to answer.

The phone rang.

Methos started, knocking the bed table next to him with his head. "Crap!" he exclaimed, holding his head with one hand and ripping the comforter off his face with the other. He shot MacLeod a look that screamed annoyance. "Aren't you going to get that?"

Mac shook his head. "Whoever it is can wait."

The phone rang again. "It might be an emergency," he said, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

Pulling Methos' head in swiftly, he planted a gentle kiss on the other's lips. Methos blinked, looked at the phone, and picked it up. "Call back later," he told the person on the line, and hung up. "Mac, I..." he swallowed, trying to think of what to say.

The phone rang again.

Methos groaned and started to pick it up again.

MacLeod beat him to it.

"What part of 'Call back later' don't you understand?" he growled. "Oh. Hi, Richie."

Methos almost screamed.

"Uh, Richie, this is kind of a bad time...... Uh, yes, that was Methos. No, I don't think I'm going to Joe's tonight. Yes, I mean it that this is a bad time. I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right?" MacLeod hung up without waiting for an answer. Then he unplugged the cord.

Methos raised an eyebrow.

"Now, as you were beginning to say...."

"As I was beginning to say," Methos repeated, trying to catch his original train of thought, "is... Mac, I..." he rubbed his head in frustration. Crap on a fork, this was hard. "This can't work."

Sixty to zero in two seconds flat. The humor flittered out of Duncan's features and was replaced by confusion and pain. "But... why not?"

"MacLeod..." He struggled to explain it to the Highlander. "You're a great guy, and I really like you, but you live in an Immortal zoo. For example," he began to warm to his own subject, "take the phone call a few seconds ago. An immortal calls you up to find out if you're going somewhere tonight. So he can meet you there. And you do this often!"

Mac shook his head, still confused and hurt. "It's just Richie, Methos."

"But, you see, it's _not_ just Richie! It's Amanda, and Kalas, and Cassandra, and your long string of lovers returned to haunt you, and Richie on _top_ of that! Immortals know you! They hunt you and visit you on a regular basis! I... it's too much in the spotlight, MacLeod." He gave the Scot a sad look.

"Methos--"

"Plus, Immortals argue amongst themselves for the honor of challenging you."

"Oh, that's not--"

"It's true, Duncan. You have challenges all the time, and I don't want to come home one night to a short call from Dawson." He looked at his hands. "I just... I can't do that."

"Oh, Methos....." Duncan felt his heart begin to rise when he realized what the old man had said -- that he really liked him _that_ way. That it wasn't that he didn't care for the Highlander. It immediately sank again as soon as he realized that it didn't matter--he was still being rejected. And for what? For being who and what he was. MacLeod tried to gather some feeling of righteous anger to protect himself with, but it wouldn't work. He couldn't be mad at Methos for being who _he_ was, either. He sighed.

"Methos...." He took a deep breath. "Methos, is it because you're afraid to lose me? Is that why?" That's what Mac thought he had heard, but he wanted to make sure... to be sure....

Methos nodded a little. "That's a large part of it..." He bit his lip.

Duncan let out his breath. "If it's that important to you, then I could... I could drop out of sight. Be a little less 'in the spotlight'." He thought for a moment. "Or even a lot less." He shifted so he was sitting next to Methos, leaning against the bed.

The old man closed his eyes. "No more old flames with nice breasts and complicated problems? No more immortals with grudges lurking in the shadows?"

Mac shifted uneasily. "I can't change the past... but I _will_ try to warn you ahead of time."

"Scout's honor?" He opened his eyes and turned his head to find Duncan's own warm, welcoming gaze just inches away from his face.

Mac laughed gently, eyes crinkling. "Scout's honor," he confirmed in a whisper.

Leaning in the couple inches, Methos' eyes flickered down to the other's slightly parted lips and back up. Gently, he moved in for a brief, tingly kiss before pulling back a bit to look at his friend.

Screw the planets' alignment.

==========================================================

A few minutes later, Mac felt that he had to do something about getting Methos fed--he wouldn't want his love to get sick. My love? he thought, I like the sound of that...

So he was quickly cooking some spaghetti and had just leaned towards the old man to capture a kiss when they felt the presence of another immortal.

Someone knocked on the door. MacLeod groaned.

"Mac, I know you're in there; I can feel you! Let me in!"

Someone--make that Richie--jimmied the lock open.

Mac groaned and started to pull away.

"He better have an insane immortal chasing him," Methos muttered, stepping away from the Highlander. "Just kick him out so we can continue."

Silently, Mac agreed. Of all the--"Don't you dare move," he warned the suddenly skittish Methos. Handing him the spoon, he fixed him with a firm look. "Stir.

Richie ran in, looking around as if he expected mass mayhem to come at him.

Well, he wasn't utterly disappointed.

"Richie," Mac greeted, unable to keep an annoyed tone out of his voice, "you decided to drop by." And break my lock, he silently added.

Richie eyed him cautiously. "Yeah, I--"

"What don't you understand about the words 'this is a bad time', the nouns, the verbs, or the adjectives?" Methos gave the sauce a vicious stir. "Or maybe I should try to find smaller words."

The young immortal surveyed the scene, leveling a glare at the old man. Methos was cooking, and Mac was--he glanced over to the table, where a book and a bottle of gin sat. Reading a book? "Doesn't look too bad to me."

"Richie," Duncan began delicately, feeling peevish that his seduction had been interrupted, "Methos and I have some stuff we need to work--"

"_Crap_!" the old immortal yelled, yanking his hand away from the saucepan, which teetered on the suddenly cracked burner and, in seemingly slow motion, spilled the boiling-hot tomato and basil sauce all over the man.

There was a pause as Methos drew breath to scream.

   [1]: mailto:black_cassima@hotmail.com
   [2]: MAILTO:majickal_childe@yahoo.com



	3. Nightfall

Days Like This, Part 3

Days Like This, Part 3

By [Cassima][1] and [Kat][2]

==========================================================

Well, MacLeod reflected several harrowing minutes later, it could be worse. Not much, but worse. Methos could be mortal.

As it was, it was bad enough.

Methos was suffering from burns all down his front, and was laying on MacLeod's bed, for the second--at least--time that afternoon. He was healing, since, after all, he _was_ immortal.

Richie had then insisted on helping by temporarily leaving to retrieve Chinese take-out--which was where he was at that moment. MacLeod had just finished cleaning up the now-cooled sauce from his entire kitchen, and was currently in the process of getting the healing immortal something to drink, and considering banging his head against the wall while he was at it.

The perfect spontaneous seduction, ruined by the inappropriate application of spaghetti sauce. Hell, he hadn't known that there _was_ a bad side to getting spaghetti sauce on your future lover. Most of his best seductions involved _some_ kind of food being applied to the body of one's choice to be slowly, teasingly removed by a hungry tongue...

Now he'd be surprised if Methos even still agreed to the relationship, much less allowed Duncan to play with his food.

He cast a glance into the darkened bedroom to see an arc of lightening dance over the other man's chest. Good; it wouldn't be long now. Turning from his trusty mop and bucket, he moved to stand at the doorway. "Hey."

"This day," Methos pronounced as the pain faded little by little, "has truly sucked."

Mac smiled slightly, feeling a little sad. "So I've heard."

With a gesture, Methos invited Mac into the room. "Mac, we have to talk."

Oh, no, the Scot moaned inwardly as he settled next to the old man on the bed. "You feeling better?"

"I've had worse." His bare chest glistened with new skin and his sinewy muscles twitched as he made sure the skin was completely healed.

"I'm sorry," Mac said, feeling guilty.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Unless you knew the burner was going to blow up, you have nothing to be sorry for." His eyes slid over to meet the darker ones at the same time that his hand slid over to cover Duncan's. "MacLeod, I've had a half an hour to think while I lay here in pain, and I've decided this isn't a good idea."

"No--" Mac cried, beginning to panic. So close--

"It's not you, Highlander, it's how bad things happen to me when I'm around you. It's self-preservation, plain and simple. I--"

"Don't tell me you don't feel this," Duncan leaned over and whispered to Methos. He could see the heat he felt reflected in the other man's eyes, and an intense moment passed around them. Duncan could feel the skin of Methos' bare chest radiating heat against his arms, could almost imagine the touch of that new skin, could practically feel gravity pulling his mouth to the one in front of him. He's breathing heavily, he thought with glee. But, so am I...

"I..." Unable to resist a moment longer, Methos rose up to blindly capture Duncan's mouth, wrapping his arms around the Scot to realize that the other man was enthusiastically meeting him halfway. He pulled the Highlander on top of him, grinding his hips lightly against the others.

Duncan gasped and ground his pelvis back at the wriggling, delicious man in front of him. He tasted so earthy and spicy, something he'd secretly craved but only just found. He ran his hands down the smooth back. He could feel Methos' hands--one in his hair, freeing it from the ponytail, the other pushing up his shirt to get to the broad expanse of his--

==========================================================

"Hey, Mac!" a rather cheery voice called as the feeling of immortal presence engulfed the lovers once more. "I brought take-out..." Wandering over to the bedroom, he found Methos lying on the bed and Mac a few steps away. Mac's hair was half-loose and his shirt untucked. Both he and the old guy were panting heavily, not looking at each other--

Oh, god.

Holy mother of--

Crap.

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

"Oh, crap." He dropped the takeout and scampered towards the door. Mac and the Old Guy had almost--

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

He had walked in on--

Fuck.

Exactly.

Damn.

He could hear Mac racing after him, trying to straighten himself up as he ran. "Richie!" the older man called. "Richie!" After he had almost cleared the dojo, a hand caught his arm and he spun around.

"What, Mac?"

==========================================================

Methos was fuming. It wasn't enough that the stupid kid kept walking into Mac's loft, completely uninvited and with no warning, nor was it enough that he'd managed to interrupt the one part of the day that WAS, contrary to all expectations and reason, actually going well. No, of course not. Instead, when he walked in, his total of--being generous--three brain cells were working well enough to figure out what was going on, so he decided to leave--though _not_ out of any feeling of chagrin for interrupting, oh, _no_. Because it bothered him. Not that it was any of his damned business, but... And MacLeod actually _ called him back_ and tried to explain!

Methos was pulled out of his brooding by his curiosity as to exactly what MacLeod was telling the kid. Surely he knew about the birds and bees by _now_... He chuckled as he remembered the look on the kid's face. Then again, maybe not. His laughter intensified, and began to display the hysterics behind it. Oh, this day... a day to end all others... a day that would live in infamy...

He struggled for breath around the choking, extremely undignified "hee-haws" he had just begun.

To put this day in perspective, it could be worse. Kronos could be back among the living dead--nope, even Kronos was an improvement over the flesh-consuming gay power of Ryan...

Oh, his gut hurt. Undignified... it was undignified for a 5,000 year old man to giggle so...

==========================================================

"So you like men now?"

"Richie--!"

"Do you like me? Are you trying to get _me_ into bed?"

Mac could almost scream. "Do you try to bed all _your_ women friends?"

Richie leveled him a Look. "Of course I do!"

Having this conversation while painfully aroused was probably not the best way to go about things. Mac took a deep breath and slowly hissed it out through his teeth, counting backwards from ten in Russian as he found his temper and attempted to put it back to use. "Richie, it's not that I've suddenly started liking men... it's just Methos."

"But Methos _is_ a man--" 

"Damn it, Richie, this isn't easy for me! It's all very new! I love him, and I want you to understand that, okay? He's so important to me... and you can stop looking at me like I'm going to jump you. I don't see you that way at all."

"Promise?" A little doubt still remained in his tone.

MacLeod nodded. "And another thing--I don't mind you making yourself at home when I'm not around, but why don't you save the picking of locks for when some one's chasing..." his voice trailed off as he looked back at the lift from where he and Richie were holding this conversation--by the doors. The unmistakable sound of... lightening? From upstairs?

"Methos?" he whispered, eyes glued to the ceiling. Finally, he remembered how to work his legs and took off.

==========================================================

He found the older man kneeling in the middle of the floor next to a decapitated body. He was trembling--most probably _not_ from the breeze coming through the broken window, despite the fact that Methos was wearing only his boxers--and his breath was coming in what could only have been pained pants. The furniture was all askew; a chair lay in it's toppled-over state across floor from its usual home, and a few other chairs and the coffee table had been tipped over.

Duncan glanced at the head on the floor: that pesky woman from earlier. Humph. Served her right.

"Oh, man..." Richie groaned, coming up from behind Duncan. "Who was _she_?"

He answered absently, still looking at the somewhat strange tableau, "Oh, just some bitch who was after Methos..."

Richie gave him an odd look. "Doesn't it even concern you a _bit_ who she was beyond that, or that Methos just beheaded her in your living room, and she _obviously_ wasn't up to his ability in fighting... What happened to your characteristic chivalry?"

MacLeod felt a fatalistic shrug fall from his shoulders. "I warned her."

==========================================================

Richie took a moment to re-evaluate the mental status of his mentor. Sexual preferences: a neat 180. Morals: non-existent. Strangeness quota: overfilled by about ten times.

Definitely not a time to leave the man alone with the weirdest immortal alive. Maybe he should call Joe...

Mac was kneeling next to Methos at this point, offering some sort of whispered condolences.

"She came through the window," Richie heard the old man reply dully. "Kronos hired her a couple years back to take me out if anything happened... I guess the bastard never did really trust me. She's insane. The whole bloody world is insane."

The oldest man alive was having a mental breakdown right in front of him. It was too ridiculous for words.

"Methos--" Mac interrupted the other's brood, "let it go. He only has control if you let him bother you." His hand moved to Methos' face to cup it gently. Their eyes met, and Mac traded an encouraging smile for Methos'. The old man's hand reached up tentatively to brush a strand of Mac's loose hair out of his eyes.

Woah, doggies. Richie shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he should cough or something to remind the two that he was still there, conscious, and not enjoying the show.

Leaning forward a little, Mac gently moved towards Methos' lips. Methos, in turn, responded by moving into and deepening the kiss. Their mouths parted slightly, and soon they were deepening the embrace by adding tangled arms and hair and fingers and oh my god, Duncan was moving for the old man's boxers--

Richie wanted to scream, but he settled with a cough, shuffling his feet, and saying, "Uh--guys? Uh..." he cleared his throat to bring his pitch back down to more normal, post-adolescent levels. "Guys..."

With a sigh, Duncan ended the kiss, resting his forehead against his partner's. "Yes, Richie?" His voice was tired.

"Could you guys just... not...." Aw, shit, he thought. They sound like they're having such a bad day... But...

Methos made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled sob. His head slid from its resting place against Duncan's and hit the other man's shoulder, where it lay, a heavy dead weight.

Duncan looked torn, obviously needing to both reassure Richie and comfort Methos. His arms went around the old man, cradling the exhausted body, while his eyes pleaded with his protégé. Please, they begged, accept this.

Feeling very mature, Richie made his decision. "Mac, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Turning around, he closed the door behind him and left the building to reconcile the old MacLeod with this new, Methos-loving one.

I'm so patient, he decided, pleased. He gave himself a mental pat on the back.

==========================================================

Methos blinked slowly, and re-opened his eyes. Richie was, much to his surprise, still gone. "Did... he really just... leave?" It seemed too good to be true, but...

MacLeod sighed and stroked Methos' chin. "Yes, he did." He added mentally, "Thank you, gods of my childhood..."

Methos snuggled closer into the Highlander's arms. Thank you, planets. I'll never mock you again...

Mac heard Methos mutter something. "What was that?"

The old man cleared his throat and said again, this time audibly--and a bit melodramatically--"Take me to bed, Duncan, or lose me forever!"

The younger man grinned happily and scooped up his beloved.

*********Epilogue*********

"Richie Ryan."

"Hi, Richie. It's Amanda. How are you?"

"I'm fine. Amanda, did you --"

The thief eagerly broke in. "So, how did it go?"

"What?"

"With Duncan and the Old Man. How did it go?"

"_WHAT?!?_ You _KNEW_?"

"Knew? Of _course_ I knew! I'm the one who told him to just accept it, approach it, and move on from there."

"Huh? Why? How could you? I thought _you_ wanted Mac..."

Laughter. "Oh, of course I do. Who doesn't? But it was killing him, and besides... Maybe someday they'll invite me in."

"_What_?"

Ignoring him, she continued. "Besides, I owed him..."

"Who? Mac?"

"No. I owe the Old Man at least this much..."

==========================================================

Elsewhere, a happy man smiled down at his sleepy partner and kissed him on the lips.

Duncan cracked open one eye. "Wha--?"

Methos smiled, and placed one finger over his lover's lips. "Nothing, love. Just checking that you're real. Go back to sleep."

As he curled back up with his new lover, Methos smiled. _Thank you, Amanda. The debt is paid..._

==========================================================

Professor Jordan carefully unlocked the door to his office. As usual, it was a mess. Papers were stacked in piles upon piles covering the entire room, in between which were strewn various folders, envelopes, textbooks, and essays to be read.

He really wished he were a more organized man.

The first message on his voice mail was from Adam Pierson. Poor kid was sick as a dog yesterday, the professor thought sadly. I'm glad he's calling in ill. No one should have to work like that.

Unfortunately, with the convention taking place today, there was no way someone could've been spared to take his place, what with all the preparations that needed to be made last minute. The thousand and one one hundred things that could possibly have gone wrong _had_, of course, and now that everything was in the hands of fate, it was nice to just sit back and chew the cud. It was truly a shame that the linguistics professor was such a nice man; so many bad things seemed to happen to him.

There was a sealed envelope on his desk, which he tore open with the bronze letter opener shaped like a Greek beta letter. Inside lay a shiny silver key ring and a note from that one English 101 teacher, Ryan Pike, scrawled in his practically illegible handwriting.

Prof. J--

Found Pierson's key in the loo, thought he might be needing it.

Oh, and by the way, there's a rumor that you might be free for lunch, since [illegible scribble]. Join me?

--Ryan Pike

Professor Jordan shivered. Was it just his imagination, or was the "i" in "Pike" dotted with a heart?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

::g:: Ta-da! All done! Reviews always appreciated.

   [1]: mailto:black_Cassima@hotmail.com
   [2]: MAILTO:majickal_childe@yahoo.com



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